by JD Hawkins
The challenge here is that usually by the time a company gets to the stage of developing a marketing strategy for a product or service, they know exactly what they’re trying to sell. But this matching app isn’t finished yet. Also, there’s only one other woman in the room, which seems like a poor decision when generating advertising ideas for a makeup app. As much as I aim to include men in the marketing, I know full well that women will comprise the majority of the users, and they’ll be the ones buying most of the makeup we plan to sell.
I push my worries aside, clear my throat, and launch right into my presentation.
“Good morning everyone, and thank you for being here. As you know, I’m Zoe Skye, the interim Director of Marketing, and this team has been assembled to develop a marketing strategy for LoveLife’s new, unnamed makeup and skincare matching app. I’ll be frank. This meeting is not so much a planning session for a finished product as it is an exploration of what this app can potentially be to its users. Since the company is still in the final stages of development and we have nothing in hand, we’ll have to shift our focus toward what we think potential users will want to get out of it, rather than the functions it’s supposed to offer them.”
I glance around the room, taking in the nods, and check my notes before continuing.
“Here are the details we have so far—the app will be available to all users for free and will entail people uploading a photo of themselves and answering a series of questions regarding their personal style and skincare routine, as well as their skin type and tone. Then the app will analyze the photos and quizzes and suggest the ideal skincare and makeup products from LoveLife’s new line to match and flatter them specifically—and far better than something they might buy based on advertising or anonymous reviews. We aim to find the perfect match for each individual—that’s the key. Right now, I’d love to open the floor to your ideas.”
A few beats of silence, the kind of silence that tells me this may not be the most productive meeting. A young blonde man in a salmon polo and khaki shorts raises his hand.
“Hey. I’m Brad. My idea is, what if we frame it as more of a makeover app? Like a woman sends in her photo and the app suggests ways to do her makeup better, like hotter? We could even shoot ‘before and after’ videos from the hottest users and post them on Instagram.”
I force a smile. “In line with LoveLife’s mission, we’re here to shine a positive light on women and men, and selling this as a makeover app would imply that they need to change, or somehow level up on an arbitrary attractiveness scale. So no on that angle. Beyond that—”
“But, like, what if they’re doing something wrong? Like their makeup looks really bad?”
“We’re marketing a matchmaker app,” I remind him. “Where we match a user to whichever products best support and enhance their lifestyle and skin type. We might be selling makeup, but there will be no makeovers, and users can actually opt out of the makeup suggestions if they want to just focus on cleansers or night creams.” I fix him with another smile, but this time it’s more like I’m baring my teeth. “Does anyone else have any thoughts?”
Another hand flies up, a stylish, grey fox of a man in his 50s with perfectly coiffed hair. “My name is Patricio, and I think a celebrity spokesperson would be great. We need someone young and influential like Miley Cyrus repping our app. That way everyone will download it.”
I nod, considering his proposal. “Can you go into more detail?”
“You know, just someone hot and of-the-moment who’s already blowing up in the media and—actually, what about Lady Gaga? I know she’s more focused on acting right now, but she really embodies the way that makeup can be a way to express your individuality. And her influence applies to both women and men.”
Patricio seems genuinely invested in this idea, and I start to seriously wonder if there’s anybody on my team who has experience when it comes to makeup sales specifically.
“I’m not necessarily opposed to the idea of a celebrity endorsement,” I say kindly, “but the campaign needs to align with LoveLife’s mission to support whole body health and wellness as well as beauty, so using a high profile celebrity to promote only the makeup is going to muddy our message, at the expense of the rest of the products we’re offering. Celebrity endorsements are also very costly, which is a factor. We need to take an approach with broad appeal, and sticking to the LoveLife branding will help set us apart from the mass of other beauty products out there that only focus on glamour and glitz.”
Another young guy raises a hand, nearly identical to Brad in his generic handsomeness except that he’s wearing a plaid shirt and jeans.
“TJ here. What if we just focused on moms? Y’know, like make it a more targeted demographic? Kids are off at school, nothing to do--bam! They’re using our app. If we narrow our demographic, we can have more specific marketing and advertising goals.”
I clear my throat, my feet firmly planted, my shoulders pulled broad. “TJ, ‘moms’ can include women of vastly different ages, income levels, lifestyles, etc. and so the idea that there’s one all-encompassing ‘mom’ demographic isn’t entirely on point.”
“I agree,” the young woman in the room pipes up. “I’m Lanie, by the way. And as a single mother myself, who works full time while my kids are off at school—” She pauses, shooting a tight smile at TJ that has the kid slumping in his chair, “—I know that what I’d want an app like this to do for me is quickly and accurately suggest the least number of products that will still meet all my needs. I don’t have a ton of time in the morning or even before bed to mess with piles of makeup and skin creams and cleansers and moisturizers—it can get overwhelming. I just want what’s simple.”
I smile broadly, and even Patricio is nodding and leaning forward as she speaks.
“Thank you for the insight, Lanie,” I say. “That was incredibly helpful.”
Patricio holds up a finger and I nod for him to go ahead. “So maybe the app helping people achieve more simplicity is the thing here?” he suggests. “Like Lanie said—I’m sure a lot of people feel overwhelmed by life and technology and the idea of choosing self care products.”
“Yeah,” TJ agrees. “I like what’s simple, too.”
“Great,” I say. “Now we’re all on the same page. Let’s take five and brainstorm on this. The goal of this app is to help all users achieve quicker, easier access to the right products that will truly work for them. And we want to convey that it will be simple.”
People start chatting with one another, passing around the pitcher of water, snacking on fruit and raw almonds. I finally begin to relax, and I scan my notes, immersed in thought.
“Zoe? Ms. Skye?” a slim man in glasses says. He was the one person who didn’t speak before and I haven’t caught his name yet. “I think our time is up. I’m Adam.”
I check the clock and realize that the five minutes have already passed.
“Okay, great. So what comes to mind? Would you like to share first?”
The man wipes his glasses clean with his shirt, awkward and anxious, then props them back up on his nose. “Um, so I come from more of a tech background, and I know this is a marketing meeting but I’m feeling concerned regarding the photo-imaging aspect of the app?”
“Okay, sure. Go on,” I say.
“Well, since that single photo is what the program uses to match correctly colored products to the user—and there’s indoor vs. outdoor lighting, fluorescent vs. LED bulbs, the way the phone’s camera tries to auto-adjust every picture it takes—there are just all kinds of variables that could throw the program off. Even the time of day can affect the color of someone’s skin in a photo, and accuracy is vital here, especially for first-time users.”
My stomach drops. He’s right. And this is a huge problem. “So do you have any suggestions to minimize the error margin?” I ask.
“Well, yeah. I’d recommend that users upload numerous photos, and all against a plain white background, so our algorithm
can dial all those pictures to the same shade of white and then use an amalgamation of them that will be more accurate in determining skin tone.”
Lanie holds up a hand. “Another thing. What if users could fill out an additional survey of products they’ve tried that were the wrong shade, or the right shade? Even knowing that cool or warm tones weren’t a match for someone in the past could help reduce errors related to color issues in the photos. This could also be a good place to add any reactions they’ve had to ingredients, or any skin sensitivities.”
“That’s a great idea.” Adam nods. “It’ll mean more work on the back end, but we can’t just go out there and release this app already knowing it will fail.”
“Thank you both,” I say. “This is all really good input. We definitely can’t market a product that doesn’t work like it should. I’ll speak to someone about this ASAP. What else?”
Brad raises his hand, and I gesture for him to go ahead. “So let’s say that we execute the first stage of the app flawlessly. We follow Adam’s suggestions, we add in Lanie’s allergy quiz, the coding in the app is spot on, people are buying our products and everything’s kosher. My question then is, who is manufacturing the products that we’re selling? Yeah, they have our name on them, but how do we ensure our products are actually better than those found elsewhere? How do we keep customers coming back?”
TJ adds, “Yeah, how do we maintain brand loyalty? This makeup stuff isn’t going to be like our vitamins and supplements. You can’t quantify beauty, you know?”
Patricio clears his throat. “Has everyone seen Zoe’s YouTube channel? Makeup for the People? The shows are amazing. My daughter loves them. So does my mother-in-law.”
I nod. “Thank you, so much. But how is this relevant?”
“Well, in terms of the branding…the message of your show is exactly how we want to be pitching ourselves. This app could be just as much for the woman in her eighties who still wants to look elegant to the teenage girl who’s trying out makeup for the first time to the young guy who needs a cleanser for his acne or a man at my age who wants to fight crow’s feet.”
“That’s the point of the app, exactly. It’s for everyone. And it’s not just lipstick.” I grin, and the room seems to warm up, their enthusiasm stoked. “See, now we’re cooking. Like Patricio is saying, we shouldn’t be wasting our time marketing this thing to a narrow age or gender demographic. There’s no reason to limit ourselves in that way, and I already have a network of influencers ready to go if our app is up to par, per Adam and Lanie’s tweaks.”
“Circling back to my question,” Brad interrupts, “where are these new makeup products coming from? And how do we ensure quality? The market is so flooded with options, I just—”
“I see where you’re coming from, and I get the concern. How do we market something that looks like every other product out there? To be honest, I wonder why we’re not producing these makeup products in-house.”
Lanie shrugs and says, “That’s a good point. Our supplements and teas and organic chia seed balls, everything else we sell is made by LoveLife, right down the street. We could manufacture makeup. But it’d be a huge undertaking—hiring people, coming up with proprietary formulas, purchasing all the raw materials, the actual manufacturing—it’s all time and money.”
I mull it over, knowing she’s right but feeling strongly anyway. “The thing is, if we hire someone in-house, they could create a more diverse array of custom mixes than we’d be able to buy, and we’d have total control over the ingredients going into our products. Yes, we’ll have the cost of the new hires, the raw materials, all of that. But once efficiency is up and a strong model is in place, the profit margin would be more than enough to justify the initial costs.”
I glance around the room and realize that I’ve gone off on a tangent that nobody is quite following. On top of that, we’re out of time.
TJ pipes in again. “I mean…that all sounds pretty excellent.”
I smile and start gathering my notes. “Meeting’s adjourned, guys. Thank you all so much for contributing. Obviously we’ll need to explore the branding and marketing aspects in greater detail—design and data analytics will be the next frontier if Mr. Bartock approves of our campaign pitch from this meeting—but the bottom line is, we’re promoting the app’s simplicity and universality, and we’ve made significant progress. You should all be proud of yourselves.”
The energy in the room is like a sparkler on New Year’s Eve, the team talking and laughing and writing down ideas on notepads. As for me, my mind is completely blown. There is so much to think about, and so much to bring to Liam—if he’ll even listen to me this time.
As I turn to leave, I notice the door is open, even though I’m 100% sure I closed it before I started the meeting. I wonder if someone peeked into the room while I was talking, if it was Liam checking in to see how I was doing, and I imagine him watching me, impressed with my leadership skills. But then I quickly push the thought from my head. There’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed if Liam was here. And besides, even if he was, I’ve got a lot more to worry about than impressing my boss now.
I have to somehow convince LoveLife’s infuriatingly hot, incredibly controlling, power-hoarding CEO that not only is his new app in trouble—but that I’m the one who knows how to fix it.
10
Liam
“What do you mean there’s no way to patch the systems together? And why is it that the algorithm still isn’t working?” I step through the complex cords and fiber optics of the Tech Lair, our nickname for the top floor suite where our programmers figure out all of the technical details behind our various endeavors. The identical twins Daniel and Nathaniel both shrug away from me, their dark, curly hair hidden underneath navy blue baseball caps. Several others pretend to be deeply entrenched in tasks related to other sectors of LoveLife.
Peter clears his throat, a balding spot on his head glistening under the fluorescent lights. “Just because we haven’t figured out all of the glitches yet doesn’t mean we’re not close. But we need more time and more resources. The precision with which this app needs to use photographic pixels to decipher skin tone is extremely complex. Think about how long it took for developers to create facial recognition software, and this is far more difficult since the way that skin tone appears in photographs as opposed to real life can vary substantially.”
“Where are we with the beta testing? Show me the latest results.”
Peter tugs nervously at his collar. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Look, I’m serious. I’m the CEO of this company, so I need access to the particulars of what’s going on in every department. And needless to say, this app should take the highest priority among the projects you’ve been assigned. We’re weeks away from launch.”
He sighs and leads me over to a bank of monitors as if he’s on his way to meet a firing squad. We pull up beside a young girl who can’t even be 21 yet, with thick cat’s-eye glasses and a bleached blonde afro.
“Samantha, meet Mr. Bartock. Mr. Bartock, meet Samantha. She’s one of our summer interns, and she’s as smart as they come. She’ll be here just a few more weeks before heading back to UT Austin.”
“Hi Mr. Bartock,” she says, a shiver of excitement in voice. I shake her hand and give her a smile. The dimples in her cheeks are charming.
“So,” Peter starts, “we’ve been running the beta version of the app with photographs of Samantha as a controlled variable.” He brings up several photographs on a screen: Samantha sitting on the bed in her dorm room, bright white lighting overhead, a few music posters in the background. Another photo taken at Barton Springs, trees and clustered pools behind her, face glowing in the natural bright sunlight of midday. A third photo of her out at dinner, grinning above a bowl of steaming ramen, the lighting dim to create a more sultry ambiance. “We also took several headshot-style photographs of Samantha here, against a backdrop. One of my close friends is a professiona
l photographer and was generous enough to volunteer his time.” Peter clicks on the screen and I see a row of headshots against a dark background, the girl’s features crisp and clear, her skin tone a very warm brown with pink undertones.
“Okay, and what happened?” I ask. “Why is bad news written all over your faces?”
Peter sighs and sits down at the keyboard, typing. Another screen pops up, showing the same photographs labeled with a skin tone color. Two simply read ERROR/NO MATCH, the photos from Barton Springs and in the restaurant, and then the theoretically compatible skin tones that the program has selected based on the other photos aren’t even close to being correct—one a too-light caramel shade and the other a darker brown with yellow undertones.
“There are several issues at hand,” Peter explains. “The first is obviously the quality of pictures uploaded through the app. In an ideal world, our program would work with any photo that had decent lighting and was zoomed in close enough on the person, but we keep getting nothing more than ERROR/NO MATCH messages with at least 65% of uploads—they’re just reading as too light or too dark to match any skin tones in our database. On top of that, the software isn’t effective enough at ‘reading’ the photographic pixels. A truly functional program should be able to use the disparities due to lighting or different angles or what have you to create an average that most closely approximates the person’s actual skin tone, but we have no baseline for the program to use when extrapolating how many shades to go up or down. Make sense?”
I cross my arms. “Of course it makes sense. But why are we still getting such inaccuracies in the program’s assessment of Samantha’s skin tone? Those are professional photos with excellent lighting.”